


Spark

by KProject



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KProject/pseuds/KProject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musings on Pyramid Head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

**Author's Note:**

> He is judgement.

He's a thing of metal and blood and fierce desires, pain and death and callings that can't be ignored. He's a simple creature, really. A man, muscular, average height. The pyramidal helmet, caked with blood and reeking of copper, weighs upon his shoulders like the sins of all the world.

He is judgement.

They're only one man's sins but they weigh upon him just as heavily.

They're not beings. Not people. Just sin and torment spun from mist, woven into form and being like the silk spurting from a spider. They're not allowed to be innocent. They deserve it. Why else would he be here? The act is always mechanical and passionless. Routine. Almost habit. Grab. Pin her though she squirms and screams. Thrust until flesh and blood splinters and cracks under the assault. And then it's done, and she's nothing but another set of stains upon his skin, upon the walls, spilling crimson over everything. Afterwards, he always feels oddly empty. Like a shell. Like an empty suit of armour, protecting nothing, immune to everything.

It's duty. It's purpose. It's why he exists. It's as deeply ingrained as the urge to take his next breath and just as hard to ignore.

The helmet digs into his shoulder, rubs insistently with the motion of each footstep, finally tears through to open a new gash in his skin. How strange to shed his own blood, feel his own pain. How strange to feel.

That name's on his tongue again. "James. James. James." He mindlessly repeats it over and over again like a mantra. His voice is like the wind blowing over a gravestone, slowly eroding it into dust.

And then there's only silence.

He treads the hallways, the metal knife scraping floor and wall alike in his wake, striking brilliant sparks that flare like fireflies, and searches for another soul to judge.


End file.
